Gears
by OhThatsWanky
Summary: In which Brittany gets her motocross on, among other things. A series of short pieces.
1. First Gear

First gear is my favorite, because it's how you start out. It has to be strong because it has to get everything moving even when everything wants to stay still. I practice riding my bike in first gear all the time; u-turns, tight circles, figure eights. It's like dancing super slow.

One time you came to watch me at motocross practice and I kicked the shifter down into first and got on the gas and dumped the clutch and stood up on the pegs as my bike reared up off the ground like a horse in a cowboy movie until Coach Shaw yelled, "Stop showing off, Pierce!" but I could see her smiling because my lap times were always two tenths faster whenever you were around.

The summer we both turned fifteen, you kissed me for the first time and I won so many races that I got bumped up to the Women's class.

Then again, I practiced a lot that summer, putting in extra laps, working on my bike, because you'd usually stay late with me. The way you'd stare at me as I worked, the way your eyes roved over my hands and forearms as I pulled the wrench to tighten a drain bolt or inspected the paper pleats of an oil filter, the way your lips would sometimes part and show the tip of your tongue without you even noticing sent a ball of heat straight into my belly.

Day after day, I simmered over the burner of your longing looks, until one day I couldn't take it anymore and I grabbed the closest thing in my toolbox and thrust it towards you. "Phillips screwdriver."

Your brows creased together as you regarded the tool. "What?"

"This." I waved the screwdriver back and forth. "See, it's pointy."

You looked at me skeptically, but I needed this distraction so I kept going, picked up a different tool and held it out like the first.

"That's easy, it's a wrench." You were sitting up now, interested.

"Combination wrench."

"Fine. _Combination_ wrench," you huffed. Then your curiosity got the best of you and you asked, "Why?"

I tilted one end of the wrench toward you, then the other. "The ends are different. Like a two-for-one combo."

"Hmm."

"How about this one?" I held up another wrench, feeling tricky.

You shrugged.

"Box wrench."

That one prompted a saucy smile. "Wanky."

We continued on, but it didn't take long for your gigantic brain to learn them all so I could put you to work doing something other than stare at me. "Torque wrench."

I felt the smooth handle of the wrench settle into my outstretched palm.

"Does this make me your nurse?" you asked with a smirk and a raise of one of your perfect eyebrows.

"My assistant," I said, and then I couldn't stop myself and I bent forward and captured your lips with mine, felt your breath hitch and quicken as I deepened the kiss until I ran out of air and had to break it. "My sexy assistant," I gasped.

You looked away, lashes fluttering. Nervous. Adorable.

"I love kissing you," I said.

I knew it was a mistake the instant I said it.

"We're just playing." Your face was serious now, like a door slammed shut. It was always this way. _It doesn't mean anything, Britt_.

I nodded. All I wanted to do was kiss you again and stop you from talking, stop you from bruising me again with your words, but then you stepped close and pressed your palms against my cheeks and kissed me with teeth and force, a kiss from the middle of a war. I shoved aside my surprise and kissed back, fueled by hunger and frustration, surrounded by the smell of oil and metal.

First gear is my favorite, but now I was stuck with the clutch pulled in, constantly revving, going nowhere.

You didn't come to practice as often once freshman year started. I figured you got tired of the noise or the smell of gasoline and exhaust or the dust or the mud, and after a while I stopped looking for flashes of red and white in the grandstands. But one day there you were, and even though I knew better I looked at you a little too long, just enough to break my flow, and I saw the jump up ahead a little too late. I tried to save it by hitting the gas, but the rear suspension snapped up as my wheels left the ground and pitched the front end down into an endo that flung me straight over the handlebars.

Time really does move in slow motion when you ride long enough and crash often enough, and I've done plenty of both, plenty enough to twist in mid-air so that I'd land on my back instead of my face, to watch my bike fly over me like a plane coming in for landing. The back of my helmet slammed against the track and I saw clouds and unicorns. The clouds were pink and fluffy and the unicorns were singing—

"Brittany!" Your voice was frantic.

The unicorns were singing in tiny unicorn voices. "I'm a victim of gravity. Everything keeps fallin' down on me." My legs felt heavy.

Then I saw your face above me, fuzzy through the grime that covered my goggles. Somewhere someone said, "Help me lift the bike off her," and then you disappeared.

Maybe it was me that was singing. "It isn't love that makes the world go round, you see, it's the power of gravity." Then my legs felt light again and I wiggled my boots.

"Brittany?" You were back, your eyes dark and shiny-wet with tears. For someone who cares so much about appearances, you wear your emotions so plainly. You reached down into my helmet and brushed your fingers against my cheek.

That's when I knew it meant something to you, despite everything you'd said to deny it.

"Your uniform's all dirty. Coach Sylvester gon' be pissed," I deadpanned.

You punched me in the shoulder and yelped as your fist struck the armor I wore under my jersey. I giggled inside my helmet and you shook out your stinging knuckles and shot me a dark look, muttering, "Have fun with that concussion," because it just wouldn't do to show that you were scared.

The feeling of both wheels leaving the ground is like flying without wings. By itself, my bike looks impossibly heavy with two knobby tires and chunky front forks and a too-big engine stuck into its frame. But once we're out on the track there's no one else in the world but me and the engine beneath me and a leap of faith.

I've been making leaps of faith since I learned to ride when I was five. I've had a lot of practice. But you? It's gonna take you a little while to come around, I know. And I can wait. And I will.


	2. Second Gear

You're in between now, and it's a weird place, like being in second gear when you'd really rather be in third. But you've changed in the past year. You've been patient, you've been angry, you've been wise and mean and kind and now it's like you've both started over except you haven't.

You know it's been weird for Santana, too. Santana of the Absolutes, she of the litany "All in or cash out your chips," is in uncertain territory now. "What about you and I?" she'd asked so hesitantly after Nationals that you knew that despite all your attempts to spell things out for her in the simplest words possible she still didn't believe it could happen, that you could be together and happy. It's frustrating, but you know her like no one else does so you know exactly what you have to do: you're going to have to be sneaky.

It starts with an offhand remark to Santana about wanting to try every drink on the board at the Lima Bean because Lord Tubbington had traded his nicotine habit for caffeine and you didn't want to let him drink anything that you hadn't tried yourself, which of course means meeting for coffee. Lots of coffee. And lots of accidentally brushing your knee against hers under tiny coffeeshop tables.

Coffee leads to hanging out, after Cheerios, after motocross practice, after dance class. Nothing you haven't done thousands of times before but this time it's like you're getting to know each other all over again. You don't even touch each other at first, not even a hug, and certainly not any sweet lady kisses. Under such self-imposed constraints, there's not much else to do but talk. So you tell her stories. The one about Lord Tubbington and the ducks. The one about your sister and the can of blue paint. The one about the speedy little pancake that ran away and how it met its equally speedy end.

Santana picks up the habit of listening with her eyes closed. The first time you catch her, she's leaning back against the pillows on your bed with her eyes shut and her face so still that you think you've bored her to sleep. Curious, you stop mid-sentence, and after a moment Santana opens her eyes to look at you, asking _What?_ without saying a word.

"I thought you were sleeping," you whisper.

Santana's lips hint at a smile as she proceeds to recite the story you've just told her, every detail accurate. She quirks an eyebrow at you with satisfaction, the same look she gives after she's aced one of Mrs. Hagberg's pop quizzes. Your jaw drops open and you stare at her and she says, "I'm listening," as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Sometimes Santana talks — and on a really good day, she even talks about feelings. How she's pretty sure she's going to fail her AP Spanish exam unless she studies extra hard at formal grammar and god help her she will kill Mr. Shue if she ends up stuck in Spanish 101 in college instead of getting the credits for free. How she really wants to get to the top of the Cheerios this year because it's one thing she knows she's earned. How she's worried about starting her college applications because her dad wants her to go to Johns Hopkins like he did but she really wants to go to college in California. You feel something inside you unclench a little at that last admission, because Santana knows you've been set on UC Berkeley for months now and you were never sure what she thought about that.

Sometimes no one talks at all, and you both learn to grow comfortable in the silence of the space between.

You've had something on your mind for a while and you finally mention it one lazy Lima afternoon, summer already a month gone. "There's gonna be a picnic over at my uncle's next weekend. Want to come with?" You try to say it casual even though you feel slippery inside, like a box full of eels.

Santana's eyes widen and she looks like she's going to say something, but then she shakes her head and looks down at her hands in her lap.

Before, you would have let her off the hook. But this is now and you're not the same. "What, you got a hot date?"

She jerks back and looks at you in confusion.

You can't help but smirk. "I know you're into Quinn."

"What? No!"

"Rachel, then. I knew it." You lay it on thick.

Santana shoots you a pinched look of distaste.

"Imma run her over with my dirtbike," you growl.

She finally breaks into a fit of giggles, no doubt imagining Rachel's gory demise under a set of knobby tires. "Stop it," she pleads. She grows serious as she catches her breath. "I don't have a date or anything. I just... It's just that... This is a family thing, right?"

"Right. And I want all of my family to be there."

And there it is.

Before, Santana would have made up an excuse or an outright lie to get out. But you're not the only one who's different now, and so she looks at you with a shy smile and says yes.

A week later, you pull your truck up to the curb outside Santana's house and grin as she climbs into the cab and slides a large covered pan onto the seat between you.

"Hey."

"Hey." She's smiling at you now, and she's so beautiful you catch yourself squinting. You grab your aviators from the dash and put them on.

The cab of your truck smells like sweet corn and spicy beef. You nod at the pan. "Did you make guanimos?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't have to," you say.

"I wanted to." She shrugs and puts on her sunglasses. But now you know how she spent her morning, her fingers running through soft water as the cornmeal soaks in a bowl, mixing the hot pepper with minced beef over a skillet, tucking spoonfuls of filling neatly into cornmeal pockets, hours of effort, because Santana's mom always says _A guest should bring a gift_ and that's what Santana does and you love her for it.

She turns and looks out the window at the back of the cab. "Is that your sister's bike?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Going for a ride?"

Now it's your turn to shrug. "I was thinking about taking a ride around the farm. Like when I was little." You feel about as innocent as a cat in a henhouse, so you start the truck and turn up the radio and soon enough you're both singing at the top of your lungs with the windows rolled down as the outskirts of Lima fly by.

Your uncle's farm is out past the Country Club, almost all the way to Buckland. When you reach the mailbox shaped like a John Deere tractor, you turn off the road, drive past the cars and trucks already lining the driveway up to the farmhouse, and park right next to the machine shed.

You hop out of the truck and your uncle's right there to greet you with his customary bear hug. "Brittany!" he bellows. Years of working around farm machinery has left his hearing a little on the deaf side, but then again, he's also a Pierce, and containing excitement's never been much of a family trait. "Glad you made it, and you brought Santana too."

You bet Santana's having a similar experience on the other side of the truck. The welcoming committee's your mom, you guess. And maybe your aunt, too. You pull a key out of your pocket and dangle it in your uncle's view. "Help me unload?" you ask as you walk around to the bed of the truck. A quick glance at Santana confirms your hunch — she's wrapped up in a tangle of arms belonging to your mom and your aunt and if she's lucky, she might escape without getting her cheeks pinched.

Then you're in the middle of the party. You eat good food, drink punch until your brain buzzes with sugar and then you're laughing at your dad's corny jokes and trading tall tales with your cousins, each story bigger than the last — always with an eye on Santana to make sure she's enjoying herself, too — and you bob and weave until finally there's enough of a lull for you to slip your hand inside Santana's and pull her away.

You lead her back to your truck and the small bike parked behind it. "Wanna go for a ride?"

She hesitates for only a moment before saying "Okay."

She's ridden with you enough to know the drill, and stands aside while you swing your leg over the seat. You check the key in the ignition and flip the long lever of the kickstarter down with your right foot. Kickstarting a bike is a dying art, part puzzle, part ritual, and you mentally pat yourself on the back for bringing the small bike because kicking your big racebike is a pain in the ass.

The bike roars to life on the third kick, and you feel the same twinge you always do, as if you've just gotten away with kicking a sleeping beast in the ribs. You imagine that if someone did that to you you'd be pretty mad too. Definitely mad enough to roar. But this bike is a wee little beast, and after you fiddle with the choke lever it starts to purr like Lord Tubbington after a queso binge. You grin at Santana, and right on cue, she swings herself up onto the seat and settles in behind you, her belly to your back and her breasts pressed up against you, and its so much contact so soon that you twist the throttle and hear the engine rev higher and higher, howling in neutral because you've forgotten to put the bike in gear.

Santana gives you a quick squeeze and you feel the rumble of laughter in her chest. "Forgot something?" she says cheekily.

Your ears feel hot enough to scorch paper, but you try to play it cool with a shrug and a smile as you press the shifter down and then you're rolling jauntily along a ribbon of cut grass between fields of soybean and corn. It's a bumpy ride, but Santana's arms hang loose and trusting around your waist. Too loose, in your opinion. A safety hazard, even. Your remedy involves a smooth twist of the throttle and a quick upshift into second gear, and then the wind's blasting against your face and Santana's arms tighten around you and it's not just your ears feeling the heat anymore.

You knew you would end up at the old barn. You've known it all your life, its weathered stateliness defying the passing years, its skeleton of wooden beams sturdy and sound even as its ancient coat of brick-red paint bleaches to grey. The barn is banked into the side of a knoll, surrounded by perfectly groomed grass, and you park the bike and take Santana by the hand.

Inside, it's cool and quiet, the darkness held at bay by spotlights of sunshine streaming down from cracks in the shingles up above. You suddenly feel as though you've intruded someplace sacred, and maybe you have; wasn't that the point of bringing her here? But now there's a flutter in your tummy and you're not so sure about this idea.

Santana shifts at your side and begins to spin in a slow circle, captivated by the lightshow. Her hand burns in your own but you don't let go. Instead, you lift your linked hands and guide her into an inside turn. The movement becomes a dance, and the thump of your heart steadies and slows down to adagio as you trace soundless steps between the darkness and the light.

In the light, you lead her through a chasse, your feet gliding over floorboards worn smooth over decades of harvests. In the dark, Santana's eyes bore into you like an exile who's been allowed a glimpse of home. In the light, you're the one who knows the dance; in the dark, you can show her the steps, but Santana's the one who must choose to follow.

And follow she does, and you lead her in looping circles across the floor to the opposite side of the barn, to the place with the old crates piled almost as high as the hayloft. Climbing the pile is easy enough, except for the gap between the highest crate and the floor of the loft, and you catch Santana looking at you uncertainly.

You pull her closer, whispering "Hold on," as your hands fit perfectly around her waist and you lift her up with ease, just enough of an assist for her to scramble up the rest of the way. You follow her up into the loft and cross over to the huge hayloft door that fills the back wall of the barn. You sure hope your uncle's opened this thing recently as you grab hold of the pull chain and lean back, putting your weight into the effort of coaxing rusty wheels into motion.

It's beginning to look like a lost cause when Santana sidles up next to you and places her small hands by your own and reminds you once again that she's far stronger than she looks. The wheels unfreeze with an explosive creak and the heavy wooden door groans open, sunlight bursting in and filling the loft with a golden hour glow.

You take her hand again and murmur, "Come on," and lead her to the edge where the gable meets the floor, where it's so narrow that you have to lay on your back in order to fit, where you have a perfect view of the rafters.

Santana gives you that curious look she gets when she's trying to figure out your angles, but she still plays along. No matter how crazy or inexplicable your ideas, Santana never has to feign interest because she's always interested, and of the countless reasons why you love Santana that's one of the biggest.

You search the wooden beam above you for the thing you came all this way to find: a small carving of the letters "G + A".

"See it?" you ask, pointing up at the letters. "That's my grandma and grandpa."

"Really?" Santana slides closer and rests her head on your shoulder.

"Yeah."

You know there's another carving. You watch her face carefully as she finds it, the letters "B + S" carved neatly into the wood, the cuts worn smooth and dark with age. "Whose are these?"

"I don't know," you say. "Before grandma, for sure."

Her eyes linger on the carving. "I bet they were happy."

"If they loved with open hearts they probably were." You raise your hands up to the letters and form a heart with your fingers, surrounding them with a message that neither of you can say just yet but both of you feel.

She's so close that you feel her breath catch in her chest, and then she's on top of you and pressing her lips against yours and you invite her in, of course you do, _welcome home, welcome home..._

"Brittany, I've waited so long," she gasps into your mouth before breaking away.

"So have I." It's almost too much. Your brain's crackling, overloaded with everything about her, and you blurt, "Sorry, the doorbell's been broken. I need to fix it."

Santana smiles knowingly. "Nah, don't bother," she says. "I can knock." And she bends down and kisses you again and again.

She knows you better than anyone else.


End file.
